


The Serpent

by queerli



Series: Crowley's Shenanigans in Ancient China [1]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Ancient History, Birthdays, Cuddling & Snuggling, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Mythology - Freeform, Mythology References, Snake Crowley (Good Omens), The Ritz, crowley’s bad track record with horses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-22
Updated: 2019-06-22
Packaged: 2020-05-16 05:07:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19311235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queerli/pseuds/queerli
Summary: Aziraphale, Crowley, and the question of birthdays.





	The Serpent

**Author's Note:**

> Crossposted from tumblr. Hope you enjoy!

As the years pass, and the humans get more and more thorough with their records-keeping, it’s a given that Aziraphale and Crowley are forced to get a bit creative with their human personas in order to blend in.

For instance, birthdays. Neither angels nor demons have birthdays precisely, at least not any comprehensible by human standards of time, so they’re obliged to make one up. It’s not quite as simple as picking a single year and sticking to it, because people tend to look at you askance if your ID states a year of birth from several centuries ago. So every few years, the two of them update their “birthday” to match with their current corporation’s apparent age.

For the sake of ease, the month and day of their “birthdays” stay the same. After some dithering — and influences from a certain Globe performance around 1599 — Aziraphale settles for March 15, and is unreasonably smug over the joke of it. (“But angel, isn’t that technically mocking the murder of an actual human? How very… _unangelic_ of you.” To which Aziraphale only swats a smirking Crowley’s shoulder and refuses to dignify him with a response.) Crowley, rather predictably, chooses June 6. (“Really, my dear?” “What? I have a reputation to maintain.”)

But while Aziraphale tends to pluck a random year that’ll set him at roughly middle-age, then proceeds to forget about the whole business for two decades or more until Crowley reminds him about it, Crowley is decidedly more methodical in choosing his years of birth. 1893. 1929. 1941. 1965. (Plus other years before and in-between.) It takes Aziraphale a while to notice a pattern, but eventually he realizes; Crowley’s birth years are all twelve, or some multiple of twelve, years apart. Perhaps it’s simply a matter of convenience, but Aziraphale knows Crowley, and suspects there’s some deeper meaning to it.

He tries to subtly (or not so subtly) bring up the subject in conversation in the hopes of getting an explanation. “I do believe it’s that time again,” he says as casually as he can on one occasion, when he and Crowley are dining at the Ritz one lovely afternoon in May 2009. “Mrs. Wang down at the manicurist said something to the effect that I look remarkably spry for a person of fifty-five. No danger yet, of course, but I felt it best to… amend my birth certificate, somewhat, just in case.”

“Good move,” Crowley says, though he looks far more interested in aiming a piece of mashed potato with an improvised spoon-catapult at a businessman sitting nearby, dressed in an expensive suit and loudly berating a young waiter.

“I was thinking of changing it to your current birth year, in fact,” Aziraphale continues. “1965. How does that sound?”

“Mm.” Crowley fires his projectile once the waiter leaves the table. The businessman sputters and turns scarlet as the mashed potato lands neatly in his cup, spilling red wine all over his suit.

“Stop that,” Aziraphale scolds, though he discreetly twitches a finger and ties the laces of the businessman’s Oxford shoes together beneath the tablecloth. “I was thinking that perhaps you also ought to change your birthdate to save yourself the hassle later. Perhaps the year,” Aziraphale pretends to think, “1976?”

“Nope,” Crowley says cheerfully, popping the ‘p’. “1977”.

“What a coincidence,” Aziraphale says triumphantly. “Isn’t that exactly twelve years after your last birthday?”

“It sure is,” Crowley says, and digs right into his slice of angel cake without a word more on the matter.

Aziraphale gives up.

It’s very much a reverse Dick Turpin situation. Much as Newton Pulsifer desperately hopes for someone to ask him why he gave such a name to his car, Aziraphale unsuccessfully tries to get Crowley to explain the pattern behind his birth years, while Crowley blissfully ignores the angel’s increasingly obvious hints each time.

It takes another nine years, one failed Antichrist-raising, and one Armageddon’t later, when Aziraphale finally gets his answer.

A month after the first day of the rest of their lives, Aziraphale and Crowley are mildly tipsy in the bookshop’s back room, Crowley sprawled across the sofa and Aziraphale settled in his cozy armchair.

“You know, we didn’t celebrate our birthdays this year,” Crowley says, swilling his wine around his glass. A few drops spill out, but have the good sense not to stain Crowley’s shirt or the sofa cushions.

“We don’t have birthdays,” Aziraphale points out, somewhat fuzzy with drink. “Those dates are only for our records. You know that.”

“We can do yours first, since yours comes before mine,” Crowley continues as though Aziraphale hasn’t spoken. “But even so… the Ides of March? Really? That was the best you could come up with?”

“It’s a ref’rence. A _clever_ one. Shakespeare said it,” Aziraphale mutters. “And you’re one to talk. Your birthday is bloody 666.”

“Technically only 6/6. Haven’t had a six in my birth year since… oh, 1965.” Crowley sighs happily. “That was a good one. Put it on my annual report to Hell and everything. Dagon didn’t appreciate it, unfunny bastard never does, but I swear I saw that arse Asmodeus nearly laugh.”

Aziraphale sits up straight in his armchair. Even sobers up, because he wants to remember this after trying for decades to find the truth. Crowley sees the revived clarity in Aziraphale’s eyes and sobers up, too.

“Angel? What is it?”

“Why are your birth years always twelve or some multiple of twelve years apart?” Aziraphale demands. “I’ve been trying to figure it out for ages, but I never could, and you were never any help. Don’t try to fool me, you old serpent. I know it must mean something.”

Crowley looks startled for a moment, then slowly begins to grin. “Why, angel. I thought you’d never ask! I wondered how long it would take for you to break and ask me outright instead of dancing around it like you always do.”

Aziraphale huffs. “Fine, you win this round. Now tell me — _why?”_

Crowley sits back on the sofa, cross-legged, yellow eyes alight with eagerness.

“D’you remember when I stayed in China for a spell, around 560 A.D.?”

Aziraphale frowns. “Yes, of course I do. That was when you bought me that lovely vase from Hangzhou. What does that have to do with anything?”

Crowley smirks. “I was assigned to carry out the temptation of a noble, but I ended earlier than expected and took the rest of the week off.” What he doesn’t mention is that the noble in question had already thrown himself headfirst into a thoroughly immoral life before Crowley even arrived in the country, leaving him twiddling his thumbs as he tried to figure out what to do next. “I was staying at a hotel near the Yangtze River when I heard from the locals that some sort of big event was taking place nearby.”

“And this was?”

“You see, apparently this event had been in the works for years. Sanctioned by the emperor and everything. It was going to completely revolutionize the way the Chinese used their calendar.”

The story begins to sound vaguely familiar to Aziraphale.

Crowley grins again. “They gathered some of the most popular animals together in order to host a race. A Great Race. The first twelve animals that could cross the river and reach the finish line would have the privilege of becoming part of the new Chinese zodiac… forever.”

“Crowley, you didn’t,” Aziraphale says, realization dawning.

“Oh, I sure did.”

“You _invented_ the Year of the Snake?”

“There wasn’t a single serpent among all the contestants! Seemed a bit prejudiced, if you ask me, unless a snake _was_ invited but simply didn’t show. So I just,” Crowley waves an airy hand, “slipped into something more slithery and lined up with all the rest.”

“I cannot believe your nerve.” Aziraphale sighs, but a smile pulls at the corners of his lips.

“Rather a neat job, wasn’t it?” Crowley beams. “I came in sixth, and so the snake became the sixth animal in the Chinese zodiac, representing the birth years of millions of humans around the world for the past two millennia.”

“And that’s why you always choose birthdays that are twelve years apart — so you can be ‘born’ in the Year of the Snake each time.” Aziraphale shakes his head in fond disbelief. “I can’t believe I didn’t notice it sooner.”

“Well, I invented it, didn’t I? Would be a shame if I wasted my contribution.” Crowley thinks for a moment. “Your current birth year is 1973, isn’t it? That would put you in the Year of the Ox.” He smiles at the angel. “Tough, clever, set in their ways, strong sense of justice, a tendency towards scholarly pursuits… fits you pretty well, I’d say.”

“And you’re a snake, of course. Crafty, passionate, optimistic, observant, and loyal to those they love.” Aziraphale gets up and moves to sit beside Crowley on the sofa, taking his hand. “Sounds about right to me.”

“Tell the whole blessed world, will you,” Crowley grumbles, though there’s little heat to it. He burrows his face in Aziraphale’s neck.

They sit there contentedly for a while, enjoying the silence and each other’s presence. Then Aziraphale frowns.

“Didn’t you ride a horse to get to the finish line?”

Crowley slowly lifts his head, cornered. “Er.”

“You did, didn’t you? That’s how the story goes, at least. The snake hides on the horse’s hoof to cross the river, then startles the horse at the last second, so that the snake finishes in sixth place and the horse in seventh.” Aziraphale narrows his eyes at Crowley. “I thought you disliked horses. What really happened?”

Crowley groans. “It wasn’t my fault, honestly. I was in the middle of crossing the river when I nearly got stepped on by that blasted creature. I only managed to avoid discorporation by latching onto his leg. I kept yelling at him to stop running, for Somebody’s sake, but he didn’t notice me, at least not until he looked down near the end and gave himself a fright.” He shudders at the memory. “I didn’t so much as cross as I was _thrown_ over the finish line. 臭马,” he mutters.

Aziraphale kisses the pout off Crowley’s lips. “Well, look at it this way. At least you ended up finishing before him, my dear.”

**Author's Note:**

> I’m a snake zodiac myself, so of course I had to write this.
> 
> There’s lots of fantastic fanworks out there of A&C partying it up in Ancient Greece and Rome, and I wanted to try my hand at seeing how they may have interacted with other ancient cultures, as well.
> 
> Some notes:
> 
> \- I did my best but this isn’t very historically accurate, apologies. However, the Great Race that I mention here is the actual myth behind the formation of the Chinese zodiac.
> 
> \- In Chinese astrology, the snake and the ox are said to be “heavenly compatible”, relationship-wise. 👀
> 
> My GO sideblog, where you can also find my writing: @ethereal-not-occult on tumblr. There isn’t much yet since I created it only yesterday lol, but I hope to open writing requests soon.


End file.
